Hadrian rode with the luggage on the coach’s flat roof. The combined belongings of Arcadius, Royce, and himself could have fit on his lap, but Gwen’s bags and Albert’s sea captain style trunks covered so much of the roof that Hadrian wondered both, what they could possible have brought, and if he had somehow terribly underestimated his own needs. Ahead of Hadrian was the driver’s bench where father and son sat side-by-side.

The father, whose name was Shelby, rode on the left and drove the coach. His son, Heath, took the Guard’s Seat to his right. The young man wore a short Grafton blade—a cheap but functional weapon that looked brand new. A light olive wood crossbow was strapped to the foot rest between them—out of sight, but within reach.

“You know how to use that blade?” Hadrian asked.

Heath looked up and smiled. “Ya scared, Sir? No reason to be. We run this route all the time. Never once seen a highwayman. Most are on foot, you see, and the Flying Lady here, she doesn’t stop.”

“Then why the sword, and crossbow?”

“Because you can never be too careful,” Shelby replied. He possessed the deep no nonsense voice of a hardworking father who’d seen enough of the world to be more cautious than curious. He reminded Hadrian of his own father who’d died close to six years prior while Hadrian was far away. This had been the cherry on the top of his stack of regrets that began with fighting his best friend and ended with the tiger. There had been other mistakes since then, but all those had been honest errors. The ones before had been intentional.

“It’s our job to see you safe to your destination, Sir” Shelby said holding the reins in one hand and a long whip in the other. Never once had Hadrian seen him use the whip on the animals. He only cracked it in the air. That was enough. “And we take that responsibility seriously.”

Shelby kept the horses at a trot, occasionally granting them a breather in the form of a walk, which usually followed climbing a hill. Hadrian marveled at the speed. It was still morning and they were already past the village of Windham in the kingdom of Warric. Hadrian would never drive Dancer at such a pace for so long. An easy twenty miles was plenty for one day’s travel. He knew from experience that—in an emergency—a horse could cover a hundred miles in a day, but the animal would be exhausted and need a long rest. Trading out the horses solved that problem. This wasn’t a new idea. Military dispatches had utilized the concept for ages, but Hadrian didn’t think it had ever been applied to casual passengers before.

He thought it was genius.

Not only was the travel fast, it was stunningly comfortable. Despite the frozen ground, numerous ruts, and the occasional rock or root, the ride was remarkably smooth. The coach rocked and bounced like a ship on a stormy sea, but it lacked the hard jarring he was used to.

“Whose carriage is this?” Hadrian asked.

“Mine,” Shelby replied.

“Looks expensive.”

“She is that.”

Apparently dissatisfied with Shelby’s refusal to say more, Heath spoke up. “My father and grandfather worked as groomsmen for King Fredrick of Galeannon. It was my grandfather’s dream to move to Vernes and start his own river barge service on the Bernum. He died before he could, but left his savings and the dream to my father, only—“

“Only I don’t know a ruddy thing about barges,” Shelby said.

“You tried at least,” Heath pointed out. “And you learned a lot.”

“I learned I don’t know nothing about rivers or barges. I also became just educated enough to realize I couldn’t hope to compete with the companies already working the Bernum.”

“You also learned about poststops,” Heath said, not willing to allow his father to sell himself short. He turned a bit to face Hadrian. “Are you familiar with river barges?”

“I am. I traveled from Vernes to Colnora on one. Not a great experience.”

“But then you know how they change out the horses so they can travel all day and night. That’s what gave my father the idea of creating a post or stage-coach. He kept the horses and sold the barge. Then instead of trying to compete with the river companies, he offered fast, reliable service overland taking passengers to the off-river cities of Kilnar, Swanwick, Ratibor, Aquesta, and Colnora. No other public service goes there. We get a lot of business when the Bernum hits flood stage, or when there’s a drought. And because we trade out the horse in stages at coach houses along the route, we can keep moving at a non-stop trot. No barge, not even your royal carriages, go as fast.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” Hadrian actually thought it was a bit too fast. Perhaps on a warm summer’s day it would be nice, but the near constant trotting had left him suffering a cold wind and a face-full of wet snow that made it hard to see.

“She rides smooth though, doesn’t she?”

“She does. Usually a wagon rattles the teeth out of a man’s head.”

“That’s my son’s genius,” Shelby said. “A cart is just a box on a pair of axles. Don’t matter how pretty you make the box, it’s still bolted to four solid wheels. Heath separated the box from the axles putting it on…what do you call it?”

“Suspension springs,” Heath said. “There these long flat straps of bowed metal that are hinged on either end, and the chassis—the box—rides, and sort of bounces, on them. Some of the noble carriages make sways, hanging the chassis from leather straps, but that doesn’t do much for the hammer sensation that occurs when you hit a rut, and the leather isn’t as durable. When it comes to building a coach, usually there’s a body-maker who fashions the chassis—he’s more like a skilled cabinet maker, and another guy—a carriage-smith—that makes the axles, wheels and such. But there’s this guy in Tarin Vale—Bartholomew, he’s a master coach craftsman, and he does it all.”

“Not the fastest of workers,” Shelby put in.

“True, but after an accident broke one of our axles, I worked with him—“

“Heath here has long had an interest in smithing. A good head for it too,” Shelby said with undeniable pride. “He’s always building stuff. Invented them springs you’re bouncing on.”

“I had the idea. Bartholomew made them work.”

“You both made it work. Boy’s a lot smarter than he looks. A sight brighter than his father, that’s for certain. Ought to be an adviser to a king or merchant lord, but this is all I can give him.”

“I’d rather be driving coaches,” Heath told his father with sincerity. “I wouldn’t like all the bowing, and I grin every time I see our name on the coach door.” He turned to Hadrian again. “We’ve got Bartholomew working on another coach, that I call the Hanson Hurricane. The springs will be way better—were using four separate stacks of thin leaf-style sheets—but the real difference will be the pivoting front axle that will change the base from a rectangle to a triangle because the wheel on the inside of the turn is able to rotate more sharply than the outside front wheel. It will make it easier to pull and less likely to overturn, which will really help in the mountains. With the Hurricane I think we might be able to cut our travel time in half.”

“Horses might have an opinion on that,” Shelby said.

“One day I hope to have a fleet of coaches running daily from all the major cities from Tur Del Fur to Lanksteer. Can you imagine that? Anyone who wants to can walk to a coach station, pay a small fee, travel to Colnora, spend a few hours getting what they need, and return home to Medford the next day—maybe all in the same day.”

“Boy’s a genius, but also a dreamer,” Shelby said. “Get’s it from his grandfather, I suppose. I’d be happy with a warm hearth, a full belly, a soft chair, and a softer woman. But not him. I’d like to remind you, Heath, that you owe me a grandson.”

“I’ll get to it.”

“I didn’t build this business for it to crumble because you’re too busy changing the world.”

“I just haven’t found anyone yet.”

“You’re too picky. If she’s got four limbs, two eyes, and most of her fingers, you shouldn’t complain.”

“As you can tell, my father’s standards are high.”

Hadrian chuckled.

“You’re married, aren’t you, Mister Blackwater?” Shelby asked. “A successful man like you. You must have a nation of children by now.”

“Actually, no. I ah, I was in the military for several years, and since then, well, you’d be surprised how hard it is to find a woman with most of her fingers.”

This made Heath laugh.

“How old are you Mr. Blackwater?” Shelby inquired. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Twenty-four.”

Shelby shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know what to make of you young folk these days. I had a wife and child by Heath’s age, three more by yours.”

“How many children do you have?”

Shelby didn’t answer.

“It’s just me now,” Heath said.

This provided an abrupt end to the conversation leaving Hadrian thinking he’d gone somewhere he shouldn’t have. He was disappointed as the conversation had helped take his mind off the cold wind that managed to push through not only his wool shirt and cloak, but also the blanket the Hanson’s had provided.

“I’m sorry, if I said something wrong,” Hadrian offered.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Shelby said.

Heath looked back at Hadrian. “About ten years ago, our family had a small place in Fallon Mire.” Heath said softly as he pointed south and a little west. “It’s a little village down that way. I was eight years old and kept asking to go with my father on his route. I saw it as this grand adventure. He finally let me go that summer. The trip was terrible. Nothing went right. Weather was bad, we got stuck in mud for two days. Then we busted a wheel in the middle of nowhere. My father had to take a job as a farmhand to raise the money to have it repaired. For over two months we lived in this very coach—me guarding her, and taking care of the horses while my father worked fields, coming back late each night with only a small round of bread, and some cheese. I kept thinking how unfortunate we were—how mom and the rest were enjoying the summer while I was trapped alone in a hot coach all day. Turned out they weren’t having fun at all. That was the summer the plague came to Fallon Mire. It’s been just my father and me ever since.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“All the more reason to find a nice girl and start a family,” Shelby said. “You never know what will happen. Waiting is for fools.”

Hadrian looked up at the falling snow that slapped his face and ladened his eyelashes, and thought Shelby Hanson made a good argument.

Royce hadn’t known whether he ought to sit beside, or across, from Gwen. Both were good and bad for different reasons. When it came down to it, his choice had been random based on no logic at all. He had sat beside her, and regretted it from the start. She was so close. The tufted leather seat being narrow, their arms and legs touched. And when the coach got up to speed, the bouncing often threw them together clapping the two like a pair of applauding hands. In the four years he’d known her, Royce had touched Gwen on so few occasions that he recalled each and every one. This intimate jostling forced upon him under the watchful gaze of Arcadius and Albert made him long for his days in the salt mines. He considered switching places with Hadrian. Sitting up in the cold and wet would be a joy compared this torture, but two things stopped him. The first was the impression it might give. Royce didn’t want Gwen to think he couldn’t tolerate sitting beside her. Nothing could be further from the truth. Yet even if it had just been the two of them, he’d still have suffered. The pressure—the tension—was painful. Everyone else appeared happy and content. Albert and Arcadius even dozed on occasion. Royce sat with every muscle taut, as every second was one more chance for him to make a mistake, to say or do something stupid. When did this become a problem?

Royce had always enjoyed Gwen’s company. From those first few weeks when she’d nursed him back to health he’d felt comfortable around her in a way he’d never known before. And yet, lately Royce had discovered a growing anxiety whenever she was near. He felt as if he’d found a fragile bit of exquisite pottery that had become essential to him, and he was terrified of breaking it. Gwen had become precious to the point of anguish. Certain that any misstep would be amplified by his spectators made the whole situation unbearable.

He might be able to sell the idea of switching places with Hadrian as a self-sacrificing thoughtfulness for his friend’s comfort, but while Hadrian could pull that sort of thing off, Royce lacked the precedent. And then there was the other thing. Despite the anguish born of exceptional humiliation and awkwardness, he found sitting beside Gwen DeLancy, feeling the press and warmth of her body, and smell of her hair to be both insanely pleasing and horribly addictive. The experience was like getting drunk on Montemorcey wine. The aroma, and taste were exquisite, and the more he drank the more intoxicated he became. Soon he lost all reason and indulged far too much. His sober self would warn him away, but his alcohol muddled mind lacked the capacity for good judgement. Before long the wine would erase whatever sense he was born with, and leave him exposed and vulnerable. Disaster would invariable follow. And yet whenever offered a glass, his sober mind, more than not, accepted. He didn’t understand how that happened anymore than he understood why he remained in the cold coach sweating.

“You’re a remarkable woman, Gwendolyn,” Arcadius said, concluding his interrogation of Gwen’s past and using the front of his robe to once more clean his spectacles. He’d done it four times since they had left Wayward Street, and Royce began to speculate that the dirt might be on the man’s eyes. “You’ve got quite the head for business, and I can’t help wonder what you might accomplish with a more formal education. There are programs at Sheridan for the scions of merchant families—courses in general and regional economics, business law, and classes on accounting, and the organizing of books and ledgers. Armed with such information and skills, a person such as yourself might soon be living in the gentry quarter administrating a dozen legitimate endeavors, and attending the Medford Autumn Gala by invitation from the king himself.”

“I’d have nothing to wear,” she said then laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, I think by then you’d have money for a grand wardrobe.”

“I wouldn’t know what to buy.”

“I’d be happy to help with that,” Albert said. The viscount sat with his head against the padded wall near the window where he had spent much of the trip trying to nap claiming he hadn’t got much the night before. “I spent my formative years with my aunt at Huffington Manor surrounded by noble ladies each seeing me as a cross between a loyal servant and an adopted son. I know nothing about the sword, but am an expert when it comes to fine lady’s clothes.”

Gwen shook her head, but sheltered as she was in her big woolen cloak and hood, one could hardly tell. “I also wouldn’t understand any of the conversations or know what to say. The nicest gown in the world couldn’t help me fight gentlemen and ladies who judge a person by the whiteness of their skin. It all seems wonderful, but I don’t think it would be. I’d just sit there feeling awkward and out of place, sweating and wishing I was anywhere else.”

Given her profession Royce didn’t think Gwen capable of shyness or embarrassment. She’d always been just as comfortable and commanding dealing with the many barons and knights that visited Medford House as she had with Roy the Sewer. Looking over at her he realized he was wrong. She sat with hands clasped on the blanket laid across her lap, knees tight together, elbows hauled in close to her waist. She appeared stiff to the point of rigid. Maybe she was cold, only it wasn’t cold anymore. When they first entered the coach they could see their breath, and the leather seats made a cracking sound when they sat down. But the combined body heat had warmed the space and fogged the windows.

They had made one exchange of horses already. A very brief affair that did not require, nor allow, time for them to stretch their legs before they resumed travel. Through the windows, trees and hillsides flashed past in a blur. Their progress was amazing. The wooden floor was still damp from the snow they originally tracked in from Wayward Street, but they were already approaching Colnora.

Colnora. This raised another issue that worried Royce. The only way south by land was across one of the city’s four bridges. Most likely they would take the Bernum or Langdon. Being the widest, these were the best for wagon travel. That meant they would pass right through the middle of the city. This wasn’t good. Royce wasn’t welcome in Colnora. If they rolled right through without a stop, and if he kept his hood up and the window drapes closed everything ought to be fine. He looked once more at Gwen, then at the door to the coach. No lock.

“The idea of learning more about ledgers would be good,” Gwen said. “So many of Medford’s House customers want to pay on credit—the nobles especially—that it makes keeping track difficult.”

“Oh, there’s much more than just keeping track of credit to be learned.” The professor said. “I’m certain that you’ll discover the mercantile laws of Melengar, worked out between the king and his trade guilds, can aid you just as much as it does for big businesses and industries.”

“Medford House isn’t part of any guild.”

“Perhaps that’s something you’ll seek to change once you know how. Could you imagine that?” Arcadius looked at all of them. “A day when the entire comfort industry has its own guild and can regulate prices, and conditions for its workers all over Avryn, and have it protected by the might of king’s soldiers.”

Another big bump bounced them all and clapped Gwen and Royce together.

“Oh! That was a fine one, wasn’t it?” Arcadius howled in delight. “Nearly hit my head on the roof that time.”

Gwen looked apologetically at Royce. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault. The road is filled with holes and the Hansons are bent on breaking the land-speed record. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Gwen shook her head. “I just…I know this is awful for you.”

“Awful?”

“Being trapped in here with all of us—with me. If it was just you, Albert, and the professor, I’m sure you’d have your feet up taking a nap. But because I’m here…well, you’ve barely moved since we got in. I just feel so bad about it. I don’t think I should have come. I’m ruining such a nice trip for all of you.”

“I for one can say that you are not ruining anything,” Albert declared. “Honestly, you’re a delight. Traveling with Royce and Hadrian is…”

Royce glared.

“Less than joyful.”

“I concur,” Arcadius. “Having you along is like walking hand in hand with summer sunshine.”

Gwen looked at Royce. Her eyes bore into him expectantly a nervous mix of hope and fear.

Just then the coach came to a sharp halt such that both he and Gwen were nearly thrown into Albert and Arcadius.

Hadrian didn’t like the look of it the moment the roadblock came into view. Hidden around a narrow bend such that Shelby was forced to use the brake to stop the coach in time, they encountered two big spiked barricades blocking the route.

Not highwaymen, at least.

A pair of wagons were off to either side making it impossible to drive around. Three men dressed in uniforms and chainmail mounted horses and rode forward to meet them.

From the red and white combatant lion tabards of Warric and the way all three wore only one gauntlet, Hadrian recognized the three as scout soldiers of Lanis Ethelred.

“Did you go through this on the way up?” Hadrian asked the Hansons.

“No,” Shelby said, his voice tinged with worry.

“Whose coach is this?” The lead rider asked as the other two men dismounted and took hold of the coaches horses.

“Mine,” Shelby replied.

“Yours?” the soldier asked unconvinced. Hadrian didn’t know him, but he knew his rank was that of a low sergeant.

“Name is Shelby Hanson, this here is my son. And if you can read, you’ll see that name on the side.”

“That don’t mean anything,” the sergeant said without looking, which made Hadrian guess he couldn’t read. “No matter who your master is, you’ll need to pay the fee to travel the king’s road.”

“What fee?” Heath asked. “We’ve traveled this route hundreds of times over the last decade. There’s never been a fee.”

“New king, new rules,” the sergeant said.

“New King?”

“Old Clovis died. Lanis is the new King. Let’s see…I’ll be a nice guy and only charge you…” he hesitated a moment as his eyes looked over the handsome coach. “Three gold tenents.”

“That’s insane!” Heath shouted.

“Is it?” the sergeant said, and Hadrian didn’t like the abruptly aggressive change in his tone. “Let’s think about this for a moment. Why isn’t a fine young lad like yourself serving in the new King’s army?”

“We aren’t subject of Warric,” Shelby explained. “We’re just passing through. We run a coach services.” He hooked a thumb back at Hadrian. “We’re hauling customers to Delgos.”

The sergeant’s sight tracked to Hadrian. He looked at his face only briefly then his eyes were drawn to the swords. “And what do we have here?” the sergeant urged his horse closer. “What are you a mercenary? Deserter? Criminal?”

“Name’s Hadrian Blackwater. Pleased to meet you.”

“I doubt that. Why don’t you strip off those blades and climb down here.”

“Because he’s a customer,” Shelby said. “And until we deliver him to his destination, he’s under my protection. Now I’ll pay your fee, which means he can stay where he is.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed. “How many are inside?”

“None of your business,” Heath answered.

The sergeant’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid it is lad. Because the fee is five gold per head. And I’ll be collecting that now.”

The sergeant dismounted. As he did, Hadrian watched Shelby release the crossbow from the strap, but kept it out of sight.

“Everyone out of the coach!” The sergeant ordered heading toward the door.

Hadrian stood up. “Excuse me, Sergeant. How far are we from Colnora?”

“What?”

Everyone, including Heath and Shelby looked at him all more than a little puzzled.

“I asked how far we are from the city of Colnora?”

The soldier studied him. “Just over the next rise.”

“That’s what I thought.” Hadrian unbuckled his belt, and lay his swords aside.

“Sir,” Shelby said to him. “You don’t need to be doing anything. Let me take care of this.” He let his hand slide to the stock of the crossbow.

“I’d love to Shelby, but I’d rather the world didn’t end this morning.” Hadrian slowly climbed down to face the soldier. “I’m afraid I can’t let you open that door.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders tensed, and his hand moved to rest on the pommel of his sword. “Something in there you don’t want me to see, eh?”

“It’s more along the lines of something you don’t want to see. Truth is—and I’m not exaggerating in the slightest—if you open that door, you’ll die.”

“And why will I die?”

“Because there’s a demon inside this coach. And if you open that door, it will come out and kill you.” Hadrian frowned at the soldier. “Although, considering how you’re disgracing that uniform, I’m inclined to open it for you. I used to be in Ethelred’s service. I know how some enterprising field sergeants left to govern themselves at a dull post often seek to make a few tenents by using the uniform to intimidate the local folk. But that sort of thing fosters distrust and a hatred not just of the soldiery but of the king himself. In that way, this abuse of power isn’t merely corruption, it’s a form of treason against the king and his subjects—those you’re supposed to protect. Many a good man fought and died bravely wearing those colors you’ve got on. And now here you are…” he shook his head in disgust. “Honestly, I shouldn’t care. I should help you with the door handle, but I know that it won’t end here.” He let his eyes rise in the direction of Colnora. “I don’t want to see a whole city burned to the ground because of you three.”

Silence followed. Even the horses seemed to hold their breath.

The sergeant stared at Hadrian, one eye squinting, his mouth open, tongue running along his teeth like a gambler deciding on his bet. “Is that so?”

Then the sergeant began to chuckle. His shoulders relaxed. “I appreciate the concern,” the soldier said, but believe me, I can take care of myself.”

“That’s just it. I don’t believe you. So, before opening the door how about you prove it.” Hadrian stepped clear of the coach and horses. He found a nice level patch of road where the snow was flattened from travel. He stripped off his cloak, tossed it aside and raised his hands. “I’m unarmed—just one man. You have a sword. If you can truly take care of yourself in combat, go ahead and kill me. If you can manage that, then maybe you’ll survive the demon.”

The sergeant’s brow creased and his mouth wrenched up on one side in utter disbelief. “You want me to kill you?”

“Of course, not. I want to humiliate you in front of everyone. I know that sounds awful, but in the process I hope to save your life, those of your men, and maybe even teach you an important lesson. There’s also a good chance I’ll be preventing a war. So, there’s a lot of upsides to this.”

Hadrian stepped forward to within arm’s length of the sergeant and let his hands rest on his hips. “Well, com’on, we have a schedule to keep, and you’re making us late.”

The sergeant glanced at his men who continued to hold the horses watching with interest. They all smiled at each other as if this was great fun.

“I’ll do it, you know?” The sergeant faced Hadrian with a sinister grin as he very slowly drew his sword.

“Yes, I do, which is why I’m not too upset. And to any demons that might be listening, please stay inside.”

The sergeant looked at the coach. A hint of suspicion appeared in his eyes, then vanished.

Hadrian couldn’t have asked for a better adversary. The sergeant was a trained soldier who had learned the basic buckler-short sword combo in the standard Warric method for a common rank-and-file swordsman. His grip, his stance, his shoulder tilt, even the way his off-hand—despite lacking the buckler—was extended out along side his sword hand, was classic Mid-Avryn military school. A complete novice would have been more dangerous as the untrained were also unpredictable. Warric sergeants were not.

Intent on making a quick end of the conflict the man attacked with a vicious thrust intent on shoving most of his short standard issue blade into Hadrian’s stomach. If he’d succeeded, Hadrian would have died a slow and painful death. This was something he was certain the soldier knew, and which became just one more reason not to be gentle.

One of the sergeant's many mistakes, and likely the most crucial, was his grip. He held the weapon like it was a hammer. Not so much his fault, that was how all buckler and shield swordsmen were taught. There was no need for finesse in the ranks. In the lines, it was all hammer and smash. Except the sergeant wasn’t in a line on a field, he didn’t’ have his shield, and he wasn’t trying to bludgeon Hadrian. As a result, when he thrust forward—as he extended his arm—his wrist rolled presenting both the flat of his blade and the back of his hand to the sky. This wouldn’t have been altogether bad if he’d skewered Hadrian, but given the sergeant couldn’t have announced his intentions any clearer, Hadrian easily stepped side. Then with the sergeant at full extent, Hadrian slammed his fist downward on the flat of the blade close to the man’s hand. His grip broke. The sword fell—but never hit the ground.

Before the blade touched the snow, Hadrian caught the sword with his foot and flipped the weapon up into his own hand. Then he placed the tip to the astonished man’s throat.

The other two soldiers let go of the horses and drawing their swords, rushed forward to defend their leader.

“Do you really hate your sergeant that much?” Hadrian asked as he literally pressed his point—against the man’s throat. The sergeant gasped and stepped backward as Hadrian allowed the edge to cut. Being a fine example of the Warric Military, the sergeant had kept his weapon sharp, and it took little effort to draw blood.

“Stop!” Shelby shouted at the sprinting soldiers. He was standing one foot on the driver’s box, one on the rest, the crossbow cocked and aimed.

The men stopped so quickly they slid on the snow. One comically fell, which caused the sergeant to close his eyes in disgust.

“Toss your blades aside then lay down!” Shelby ordered. “Fetch ‘um son.”

Heath jumped down from the coach and gathered the weapons.

Then nothing happened for a long moment.

“What are you going to do now, Hadrian?” the sergeant asked. “Kill us and you’re wanted for the murder of the king’s men. Let us go and we’ll hunt you down.”

Hadrian rolled his eyes. “Careful, or you might scare me.” He took away the sergeant’s dagger and tossed it in the pile Heath had made near the coach’s front wheel. “You’re more ambitious than your fellow soldiers, but that’s like saying your the fastest starfish on the beach. This buggy is pretty quick and chasing us would be a lot of work. I wasn’t kidding about the demon in this coach. Your reward for catching us will be an early grave—for you and a lot of innocent people. So, look…they’ll be more travelers on this road who won’t hesitate to pay The Road Tax. Stay here, enjoy the clearing skies, and consider yourself lucky you aren’t dead or being hauled in on charges of racketeering in the name of the king. Being a new king making new rules, his majesty might want to also make some new examples as well. We’ll leave your horses tethered at the hitch inside the front gate.” He gestured at Heath who gathered up their mounts and walked them around to the rear of the coach.

“You know,” Hadrian addressed all three of them. “You could try and be…well, better. I know standing a post is boring and thankless, but honestly you can always be proud of a job well done. And money is good to have, but it comes and goes. Once traded, you’ll never get your integrity back. Pride in yourself and what you do is—“

“Can we get going now?” Royce asked from inside the coach. “The demon is getting hungry.”

Hadrian sighed.